Eshkol Nevo - Homesick

Later, maybe because the game has made them hungry or maybe because the documentary on TV is about animal abuse, a kind of gloom seems to pervade the air of the living room. And they become immersed in their own worries. Noa is listing in her mind the names of the people who have already chosen a topic for their final project. And she’s torturing herself again because she hasn’t even picked a subject yet. Amir is thinking about the club and transparent Shmuel. And about the fact that tomorrow will be another grim day spent at home alone. They can’t talk over the TV announcer’s loud voice, and they don’t touch each other, out of choice. The bowls of tasteless soup they made in such a rush are sitting on the table, untouched. The sofa is hard, the heater’s dead and the water stain on the ceiling overhead is getting bigger. I might as well go to sleep, Noa thinks, but makes no move to go. Moods shift here like the weather in Modi’s letters, Amir thinks, and buries his fist in a cushion. Let him go to bed first, Noa thinks, I want to have some time without him. Let her go to bed first, Amir thinks, immediately surprised by the venom in his thoughts. He gives Noa his hand and their fingers interlock. Then he rubs his foot against the bottom of her sock. She looks at him and asks: is everything OK? And he answers — a shadow passing across his heart — yes, why are you asking me? No reason, she says, sounding panicky. He asks: is everything OK? Then watches her lips as she replies with a line from Boaz Sharabi’s song: Yes, no one dies of love any more. And he sings the next line, imitating Sharabi’s guttural voice: But without love, what is life really for? She smiles a superficial smile, turns off the TV and says: What a terrible programme. And a few seconds later, she adds: a real downer. And he swallows a surprising I’mout-of-here thought that rises up from somewhere deep. You’re right, he says. Come on, let’s go to sleep.

*

I don’t want to wait for her on Zakian’s steps. It’s too cold. And besides, why does she always have to be late? And then she’ll want to get changed and put on make-up, and I’ll end up missing David’s show. I’m going alone. If she doesn’t come in the next five minutes — I’m going alone. She just has to have all those scenes, so there’ll be a little tension, a little drama, otherwise she can’t create, right? Look who’s talking, Mister I’m-Out-of-Here. What was that supposed to be last night? You’re sitting in the living room, all cosy and comfy, eating soup — what could be more wintry than that? — and you start with those prickly thoughts. What happened, things started feeling homey and you got scared? Addicted, that’s what you are. Addicted to change. You pretend that all you want is four walls, a home, and then, the minute it happens, you start planning your getaway. Wait, hold on a second, maybe I’m putting the wrong spin on things. Maybe I really do need to get away for a couple of days, to breathe the air of solitude. But how? I sink without her, revert to being a spectator, a moaner, a masturbator, and when she comes home, my whole body reaches out for her and I want to devour her, to peel and eat her, then listen to her stories with all those little details only she sees. But that’s not actually a contradiction, not at all, she can be fantastic and still suffocate you with that dissatisfaction of hers that bubbles over on to you too. Oh come on, what are you, a symbol of serenity? A logo for shanti ? Get serious, don’t put it all on her. But it’s a fact that before we moved in together, it was different. Before you moved in together? It was a lie, a pretence sprinkled with enough bits of truth to make it work, and now — now you want to close the boot on her. Yes, don’t deny it. When you came back from the supermarket and she bent over to take the bags out, that’s exactly what you wanted to do, close the boot on her. That’s right. Your hand itched on the red metal and you almost slammed it shut. OK, it’s because you’re in the house all day, you don’t run, don’t play sports, and your best friend hasn’t had his bar mitzvah yet. You go on like that and you’ll end up being accepted into the Helping Hand Club. So, it’s time to get out of that loop before it winds itself around your neck. Get out of it, get out, get out. How did you fall into this anyway? When did it start? Noa’s late. She’s late. So what. Cool it.

All these shows start late anyway. I wonder what the songs will sound like. I know them from the guitar version. David used to play them during our long guard duty shifts in the army in a small sentry box with a broken window, and now we’ll hear how they sound with a group. I wonder what kind of audience there’ll be. Probably fans. It’ll probably be fun. I love going to shows with Noa. Music really turns her on. She flows with it. And when she dances, she closes her eyes, not like those girls who dance as if they’re paying taxes. If she’s wearing a dress, then you can just stand there and look at how beautiful she is, how her legs show when her dress lets them, how the lights flicker on her shoulders.

On the last night of the trip where we met, we all went to the disco at Kibbutz Mitzpe Shalem. We’d spent every day of the trek in the desert circling each other, throwing out a sentence, a look, a word, lingering on sarcastic remarks. But when I saw her dance, tossing her hair from side to side, pulling an imaginary rope with her elbows and swaying her hips, I felt something in that spot in my body that tells me how I really feel, the small delta made by the two arteries in my neck where they meet my chest, and I started wanting her.

Well, what do you know, here’s the van that brings her home. I recognise the squeal of its brakes. Eight thirty-two. Unbelievable. There’s still a chance we might get there on time.

*

The first photograph of the show is of the poster. Red background. Black letters (a combination of colours that rockers starting out seem to like). Their funny name, Licorice, is in huge letters, and under it, the names of the group members. David’s name is the same size as the others because ‘Just because I write the songs and sing them doesn’t mean I’m more important than the bass player.’ That’s what he told Amir when he showed us the sketch a week earlier, as excited as if the show was just about to go on in our living room. On the right of the poster, I managed (taking a professional risk, I went out into the street) to catch part of the door to the Pargod Club: a heavy wooden door with an arch on top and iron buttons on the side, the kind of door that, if you pass it during the day when it’s closed, you might easily think is a monastery door. Below the Licorice poster is a poster for a different show — you can see the date and one word of the group’s name, Shabess. I think the whole name is Shabess Dance, but I’m not sure. Behind, as background for the posters, is a greenish kiosk covered with notices. Behind that are a few Jerusalem stones that are part of a large wall, and behind the wall — this you can’t see in the photo — is the beginning of the Nachlaot neighbourhood, or more accurately, the nice part of Nachlaot, the one with the narrow lanes.

It was in those narrow lanes that Amir and I almost had our first kiss. It was two weeks after we started going out. We’d just come out of the cinema — Fearless with Jeff Bridges, which I saw not too long ago on the movie channel and it turned out not to be such a bad film — and we talked and talked about almost every possible subject: about the importance or unimportance of archaeology — on the one hand, what’s the point of digging up the past, but on the other, without the past, how can we understand the present; about Jerusalem as a place to live — on the one hand, it’s so beautiful, but on the other, a little too intense; about my dream of becoming a photographer, and about his dream — which he still wasn’t sure he could call a dream — of becoming a psychologist. We talked for hours, covering up the simple tension of when the kiss would come with long, complicated sentences. Every once in a while, we stopped next to an entrance with ornate ironwork, or a window through which the sound of a saxophone was coming, or an announcement about a special prayer meeting to be held in a square in front of a synagogue before the Sabbath. Finally, we sat down in a small park between buildings, on a bench that still smelt of fresh paint. The kiss was in the air, we even looked at each other’s lips while we talked, but we kept drawing out the tension longer and longer. Later, at four in the morning, when we were lying in my bed exhausted and purring after three times, one of them with the addition of mocha-vanilla ice-cream, Amir said that he hadn’t been sure I wanted him. That he was afraid I was interested in him only as a friend. I don’t know. I think we both — after all, I was there too, and in the past, I’d bent first to kiss guys — waited with the first kiss because we knew that after it, there’d be no going back.